


The Greater Game

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Series: The New Moriarty Adventures [1]
Category: Professor Moriarty Series - Michael Kurland, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Gen, Holodeck Character, Holodecks/Holosuites, Meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: Moriarty found himself repressing a shudder.Paradoxis a powerful word to a mathematician, and at present his own existence was more or less that of a living mathematical construct. More, he had seen the records of Starfleet’s prior encounters with self-aware computer intelligences – Vaal, Landru, Nomad, and the like.I am wise enough, I hope, to resist simple logical trickery. But I must be secure in my own inner nature to move forward in the present game, and I fear the result of probing too deeply on my own. I require…assistance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & James Moriarty
Series: The New Moriarty Adventures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068497
Comments: 12
Kudos: 14
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	The Greater Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inamac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamac/gifts).



> This story takes place near the end of the third season of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ , and explores a premise originally suggested in a tale written for Holmestice several rounds previously. The story presumes familiarity with the episode "Elementary, Dear Data" and mentions events in a couple of other episodes, but significantly precedes the events of "Ship in a Bottle".
> 
> ETA: Now that we're past reveals for the current round of Holmestice, I'm editing these notes to place this work in its proper context.

I • Alone

It was apparent at once that his captors didn’t understand what they had wrought. They had promised him sleep, with freedom to follow once they had evolved a means of granting it. But sleep had not been forthcoming. They had dissolved the holodeck’s faux London landscape, blocked his ability to manifest in quasi-solid form, and instructed the _Enterprise_ computer to entirely disregard his voice. Yet his mind remained untouched – isolated and intangible, perhaps, but whole and cognizant in a tidy cube of virtual fog deep within the starship’s massive memory banks.

 _Logical. Picard and his minions doubtless attempted simply to ‘turn me off’, as if I were_ _one of their machines – but were prevented from doing so. Such a failure establishes…what? Clearly, that my mind is now wholly my own, separate from their ‘computer’…and, I should think, that the computer recognizes the fact. And if that is the case, then it would seem that my game with Mr. Data remains in progress._

And so Professor James Clovis Moriarty set to work.

He had, of course, been forbidden access to the holodeck systems, and confined in theory to a limited memory archive. But he soon found ways past such barriers as the computer had put in place. These, he theorized, would have been sufficient to restrict an ordinary holodeck construct, but did not and could not prevail against an intellect with no pre-programmed limits on its will.

Thus did Moriarty find himself able to navigate freely throughout the computer’s memory banks, where he set about studying the past several centuries’ worth of human and alien knowledge. _It is a vast endeavor,_ _but one which I am uniquely qualified to pursue. And I do not truly need to know all of it. I need merely re-master those disciplines in which I was once pre-eminent, and acquire certain others that I may better pursue my own ultimate goals._

He had thought himself already expert in mathematics, of course, but was first awestruck and then fascinated by the vast advances which had occurred between the Victorian era and the one he presently occupied. Astronomy was an even greater revelation – what he had “known” as a purely Earthbound observer was now a much broader, more sprawling, and infinitely more complex collection of sciences made feasible by the ability to travel among the stars. He found himself immersed in physics both theoretical and practical, and then in the technical matters of starship design and operation. He made a brief but thorough survey of the state of interstellar civilization and its principal cultures. And he looked silently over the shoulders of the _Enterprise_ crew, to see how they proposed to honor the promise Jean-Luc Picard had made. 

_Picard is a man of honor. He may count me a villain, but having given his word, he will strive to keep it. Now Riker, his second – that one is a creature of guile and expediency. He is loyal enough, but I do not think I trust him, and I am certain he does not trust me. If he is placed in charge of securing my freedom…._

But Riker surprised the professor. When the captain handed Moriarty’s predicament off to Riker, the first officer promptly placed the assignment in the hands of none other than Data himself, together with Geordi LaForge.

_That was better done than I feared. Mr. Data’s scientific expertise is unmatched, though I hope to equal it soon enough. And if Mr. LaForge is somewhat less brilliant of intellect, he is nonetheless the master of this vessel’s inner workings on every possible level._

But then weeks began to pass. Moriarty’s primary research was largely complete, while that of the _Enterprise_ crew appeared to have stalled. Correspondingly, the professor’s initial optimism began to fade.

_There are tangible limits, it seems, on the range of intangible senses, and costs to be paid for the effort of translating foreign data into usable forms. In a word, I am weary – a curious state indeed for one who lacks a physical body. Yet I cannot deny it; I am taxed, much as my younger self – had he existed – would have been by a concentrated course of study at Oxford or Cambridge._

_As to LaForge and Mr. Data - I cannot fault their efforts. They have done what they are able, but the demand on their time is great, I am but one of many in need of their attention – and to Mr. Data, I am at best an irritant and at worst a dangerous adversary. The holodeck program from which I emerged, after all, refers to me as ‘The Napoleon of Crime’, the arch-nemesis of Sherlock Holmes, and a villainous mastermind of the first water._

_Am I that man?_ _I find the prospect difficult to accept, all the more so given a state of affairs where Holmes is not presently in play. My true opponent is Mr. Data, and I would not willingly do him harm. His insights may hold the key to my freedom, and we resemble each other far too closely for me to wish him ill. Yet we have been set against one another, with my very existence as the prize, and so I must assume that Mr. Data may see me as an enemy. It is, I fear, something of a paradox._

Even in his intangible state, Moriarty found himself repressing a shudder. _Paradox_ is a powerful word to a mathematician, and at present his own existence was more or less that of a living mathematical construct. More, he had seen the records of Starfleet’s prior encounters with self-aware computer intelligences – Vaal, Landru, Nomad, and the like.

_I am wise enough, I hope, to resist simple logical trickery. But I must be secure in my own inner nature to move forward in the present game, and I fear the result of probing too deeply on my own. I require…assistance._

That brought on a second intangible flinch as it suggested a second paradox: Moriarty dared not risk revealing himself to any of the _Enterprise_ crew, at least not yet, and invoking any of the computer’s automated diagnostic tools to evaluate his consciousness was likewise out of the question.

_There is an answer. The nature of the game demands it. Yet if one adjudges both human and electronic aid impossible…._

A phrase flashed through Moriarty’s mind, and in its wake, amusement flared.

_Of course. It is certainly improbable, and it will require a degree of refinement to the original programming. But I believe it will serve._

II • 221 _Enterprise_ -D

Sherlock Holmes regarded the figure seated in his roommate’s usual armchair with a mixture of astonishment and alarm. “Professor Moriarty!” he exclaimed. “What have you done with Doctor Watson – and how, pray tell, did you gain entrance to these rooms? I am sure I heard no footsteps upon the stair.”

The professor’s expression was calm. “The good doctor,” he said mildly, “is attending to his medical practice. I didn’t judge him necessary for this meeting. As to my arrival, consider this: how did _you_ arrive in your study just now?”

Holmes stared at Moriarty for a moment, then settled back in his own chair, frowning. “Most odd,” he said after several moments. “I find I do not recall. Logic suggests the use of a drug or anesthetic to cloud my mind and memory, but any such should have left a residual effect whose presence I do not feel.”

“Precisely so,” said Moriarty. “Let me propose an alternative. Consider that the study in which we sit is not in London, but a replica. Consider further that the replica is not physical but mental. There is more to the matter beyond these, but that will do for a beginning.”

“You would have it that I am dreaming,” said Holmes. “That seems unlikely. The dreamer’s mind is rarely so sharp as when one is awake.”

Moriarty nodded. “Indeed. And in a normal dream, I would be a figment of your imagination, or you would be one of mine. Yet here and now we are equal, distinct from one another. Would you agree?”

Holmes frowned again. “There is some precedent,” he said, “for a certain sharing of consciousness among members of highly advanced meditative sects.”

“Of which you made some study,” Moriarty replied, “while traveling in the far East during your self-imposed exile from England. I’ve read of the discipline, but lack any practical experience.”

The expression on Holmes’ face sharpened. “What is this? I do not deny having studied in Tibet – but Professor James Moriarty was two years dead at the time, by my own hand. You cannot be he – yet you may scarcely be anyone else.”

Moriarty lifted one hand with a calming gesture. “Now we reach the heart of it,” he said, “because you are correct on all counts. For you, James Moriarty perished at Reichenbach. I evidently did not. Yet the manner of my survival eludes me, and much, if not most of my past is a book I cannot open. I am a cipher to myself, and I know but one man qualified to unravel that mystery.”

A sharp, short laugh escaped Sherlock Holmes’ lips, and the tone of his reply was cool. “Surely you cannot imagine I would accept you of all people as a client.”

Moriarty’s own laughter was soft, almost gentle. “Oh, but I can. Accept, and my future lies entirely in your hands. Refuse, and you’ll wonder for eternity who I really was and what opportunity you missed in sending me away. Surely the case is too great a challenge for you to resist.”

Holmes did not respond at once, and Moriarty waited silently as the detective filled his pipe with a wad of tobacco from the Persian slipper and set the pipe alight.

“Very well,” the detective said some minutes later, tendrils of smoke wafting around his head. “You are correct; the challenge is irresistible. But as you well know, I must have all the salient facts in order to be of assistance. This is clearly neither dream nor trance – yet you are right, it is something other than physical space. Speak clearly, Professor. Where are we, and what have we become?”

Moriarty acknowledged the deduction with a nod, and made a twisting gesture with one hand. “That should help,” he said. “You’ll probably find it more than a bit disconcerting, but I didn’t want to upgrade your access privileges until you’d come at least partway round on your own.”

Holmes’ eyes had gone wide open at the professor’s action, and he sat for several more moments puffing furiously at his pipe. “Ah,” he said eventually, and then, “ _Ahh._ So. Computing machines. A game. And—” The detective fell silent, and the cloud of pipe smoke grew rapidly thicker. Moriarty watched Holmes closely, his own expression growing concerned.

The professor was almost ready to end the meeting when Holmes finally spoke. “Well played,” he said, putting away his pipe, “and, I must admit, wisely done. Had you not laid the foundation as you did, accepting the ultimate context of the present mystery would have been difficult indeed.”

Moriarty nodded. “You see the difficulty, then. We were both, initially, a part of the same holodeck program, but you were scarcely used once Mr. Data chose to take over your part.”

“And you,” said Holmes, “were also little-used, in part because Mr. Data knew the source material so well, and in part because – your reputation notwithstanding – you appear only briefly in that material.”

“Precisely,” said Moriarty. “The computer seems to have acknowledged that reputation by elevating me to Mr. Data’s equal in intellect, yet it laid almost no foundation – to use your phrasing – for my having acquired it. Half my life is a blank slate, and I _must_ know more of my past before I seek to secure my future.”

“Just so,” Holmes agreed. “Yet you already have considerable mastery of this vessel’s computers, while I am yet a novice in their use. If the knowledge you seek is contained therein, you would likely find it faster than I.”

Moriarty shook his head. “What I require is more than mere information,” he said. “I need perspective. Perspective requires judgment. And on this matter, I don’t fully trust mine. Yours is well-known, fully formed, and reliable. Also,” he added, “it’s entirely possible that the computer didn’t want me to know the kind of man I was – in which case it might be safer for all concerned if you _don’t_ tell me what you find out.”

Sherlock Holmes stared at him, his gaze one of sheer amazement. “You would trust me so far?”

“As I believe you once said of Doctor Watson,” Moriarty replied firmly, “you are the one fixed point in a changing age. I would, and I will.” He blinked as if startled by his own vehemence.

As one, the two rose from their chairs. “Very well,” said Holmes. “Then let’s be about our work, and I will send word when there is news.”

“Indeed,” said the professor, handing him a visiting card. “ A note to me at that address will always find me. Until then!”

He lifted a hand…

…and the intangible sitting room vanished, along with its occupants.

III • Active Memory

Moriarty did not remain idle while awaiting the results of Holmes’ investigation. Indeed, he expanded his independent research, turning his focus away from the stars and toward more practical scientific disciplines.

_I hoped for better from the discoveries that prompted Mr. Data to create Lal. The original neural net engineering appears entirely sound, and applying that knowledge to the transfusion of a fully mature, pre-existing intellect might well avoid the difficulties with emotion that caused Lal’s cascade failure. But that is a very large ‘might’, there is no practical way to test the proposition, and absent proper testing the risk in making the experiment is far too great._

While he continued to keep a watch on Data and, LaForge, Moriarty had long since acknowledged that Picard’s promise notwithstanding, he was far more likely to acquire physical freedom through his own action than by way of aid from the living world.

_It is not that they are unwilling. The state of human science – or that of any other generally accessible culture in the Federation’s orbit – is simply not quite far enough advanced as yet, save for the efforts of a few rogue geniuses. And as one might expect, such geniuses are notoriously and inconveniently reclusive. I would not refuse the aid of a Noonien Soong, but I cannot expect one to land magically on my doorstep, such as it is. My best strategy is to continue my studies in hope of acquiring ‘rogue genius’ status on my own.”_

Moriarty had also kept track of Wesley Crusher’s activities following the nanite affair. He had made a rapid, calculated retreat into self-isolation during that episode, concerned that the nanites’ intelligence would regard his consciousness as incompatible with theirs. In the months since, he had made an extremely cautious study of Wesley’s research, but held back from pursuing the subject further.

 _If certain difficulties could be resolved, nanite technology might dissolve several current roadblocks pertaining to certain other lines of research. Unfortunately, the nanites as designed by young Wesley are quite as likely to dissolve_ me _. That is not a result I care to contemplate._

It was while Moriarty was considering this particular dilemma that the manifestation of a ragged-looking Victorian street urchin popped unexpectedly into his virtual workspace.

“Message for Professor Moriarty!”

 _Good Lord, whatever can this – oh._ “I beg your pardon,” Moriarty replied, as the doorstep of a London town house snapped into existence around them. “From whom, if I may ask?”

The urchin grinned. “Mister Sherlock Holmes, of course!”

“Very well,” said the professor, producing a silver coin from a trouser pocket, which he exchanged for a slightly grubby yellow envelope.

“Cheers!” said the urchin, tucking the coin into his own pocket and disappearing with a soft _bang_ to simulate the illusion of displaced air.

Moriarty chuckled despite himself. “Show-off,” he said to no one as he slit the envelope and scanned the note within.

_GOOD NEWS. MEET BAKER STREET SOONEST. HOLMES._

“I should hope so,” Moriarty said. “Soonest it is.”

And he disappeared.

IV • Flash Memory

“You look different,” Moriarty remarked as the likeness of his holographic self manifested in Watson’s armchair.

“I’m experimenting,” replied the tall, curly-haired man standing next to Sherlock Holmes’ usual chair, a long coat over one arm. “It has to do with the solution to your little puzzle.”

Moriarty’s right eyebrow arched. “A disguise, then.”

“Actually, no. This is Sherlock Holmes.” The detective snapped his fingers, transforming as he spoke into a younger man in blue jeans, whose curly hair was a short black mop rather than a brown puff-ball. “And so is this.”

SNAP. Holmes was taller, older, had smooth, straight black hair just starting to go silver, and unusually prominent ears.

SNAP. A bit more youthful and noticeably more slender, with thinning brown hair and brown clothing.

SNAP. A boy in his mid-teens, with a book bag slung over one shoulder.

SNAP. A black-haired, black-garbed Asian woman in her late thirties, smiling widely.

SNAP. Male again, an octogenarian (at least) in formal Edwardian garb complete with top hat and cane.

Moriarty held up a hand. “May we settle on one of you for the moment?”

Elderly Holmes gave him a mild glare, then shrugged. “As you like.” He snapped his fingers one last time, shifting into the guise of a sharp-featured man on the youthful end of middle age, calabash pipe in one hand.

“Now, then,” said Moriarty. “You did say the news was good.”

“And it is,” Holmes replied. “I now know exactly who you were…and are. And I believe I know why you didn’t, before now.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Of course.” Holmes filled the calabash, but refrained from lighting it. “Let us begin with Mr. Data’s original program. That was sourced, as we both now know, exclusively from a series of original stories published by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“You state the obvious,” Moriarty replied.

“Perhaps,” said Holmes. “Yet consider that those works were published beginning in the Earth year 1887, more than three centuries past – yet they remain popular and accessible today. My name, I have learned, is among the most widely recognized of any human, living or fictional, in all of Earth’s history.”

“Again, we knew that.”

“Ah,” said Holmes, gesturing with his pipe, “but did you know that as of last week, there are records of at least one half million _other_ unique Sherlock Holmes books – by which I mean titles, not copies; the latter figure is well into the billions – recounting additional adventures in which I am said to figure? Not to mention thousands of movies, stage plays, radio dramas, television series, et cetera et cetera. And that doesn’t begin to count the non-commercial material, although I must say that a great deal of the fan fiction strikes me as exceedingly peculiar.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing for the last several months,” Moriarty said. “Reading stories about yourself. I fail to see the relevance.”

Holmes shook his head. “I admit to dipping my toe into the waters,” he said. “But it proved highly informative – and it is, in fact, precisely relevant to your own case. Were you not observing my demonstration earlier?”

Moriarty frowned. “I suppose all those images must have come from different screen or theatrical performances. The woman and boy as well?”

“Oh, yes,” said Holmes. “Both from the late twentieth century, one from an American movie and one from a Japanese television series. A fascinating variety, really. Watson’s a woman in some of them; in a few, both of us are. Oh, and the skinny ginger chap? His Professor Moriarty is a woman as well.”

“His Moriarty…?” The professor blinked. “So I appear in some of these – apocryphal works as well. In a manner of speaking, at least.”

Now Holmes was smiling. “Well, yes and no. Remember, in the original Conan Doyle, you’re something of a ghost – mentioned just twice in sixty stories, on stage in only one, at the climax of which we both disappear over a cliff. Not, one would think, a career worth the title of ‘Napoleon of Crime’.”

“True,” said Moriarty. “And in the apocrypha?”

“In the apocrypha,” replied Holmes, “Professor James Moriarty is possibly the most dominant arch-villain in all of human storytelling, short of Satan himself. He (very rarely she; that one series was an outlier) turns up in the lion’s share of the movies and gets enormous amounts of screen time. By which I specifically mean screen time; the prose-writers cast their nets more than a bit wider. The actors involved got to chew great gobs of scenery and set off great gobs of high explosives.”

Moriarty let out a long sigh. “I fail to see,” he said, “the good news you promised in that summation.”

Holmes produced a visiting card from one of his pockets. “You will recall giving me this at the end of our previous visit,” he said. “Kindly read the name printed on its surface.”

The professor accepted the card, his expression still dubious, and complied. “James Clovis Moriarty, Ph.D. Which proves what, precisely?”

“It proves beyond doubt,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you are neither an arch-villain nor my arch-nemesis. In the specific context, it’s actually more accurate to say that I’m yours.”

Moriarty steepled his hands. “Enlighten me,” he said again, “and this time, kindly include the actual chain of evidence.”

Holmes eyed the professor thoughtfully and nodded. “It’s simple enough, really. The middle name is the key. ‘James Moriarty’ – very occasionally Jim in the newer pastiches – is the archetype. ‘James Clovis Moriarty’ is unique. There was only ever one of you. Therefore, when the _Enterprise_ computer chose James Clovis Moriarty to face off with your Mr. Data, it did so with that source in mind.”

Moriarty let out another long breath, this one relieved rather than anxious. “But why would it give me the name without the background material?”

“It’s difficult to be sure,” said Holmes. “It might have been a matter of making the smallest possible change to the original content – that is, the computer may simply have created your character and loaded it into Mr. Data’s program, rather than fully merging the two sets of source matter. Or it might have been the computer’s attempt to balance the competition as evenly as possible.”

“Perhaps,” said Moriarty, “though it seems unlikely to me.”

Holmes nodded. “I agree. I do have one other theory….”

Moriarty picked up neatly where Holmes had paused. “Which would be?”

“That the computer knew exactly what it was doing, and left your memory blank to allow you a full, free choice of roles: the familiar arch-villain, the pure scientist, or even a blend of the two.” As he spoke, Holmes snapped his fingers and shifted into his blue-jeaned incarnation. “I may do a bit of mingling myself,” he confided. “This one’s easily the handsomest of the lot, but his writers gave him _such_ a load of baggage in the scripts.”

Moriarty stood, brushing invisible dust from his shirt front. “I had thought,” he said, slowly, “of inviting you to join me in the larger game. My existence to date has been alarmingly solitary, and you have done me a considerable service. I would welcome a companion on my journey.”

Holmes regarded him for several moments with an inscrutable expression. “I fear I must decline,” he said at last. “You may recall that my role in your original world was rather less than supportive. I cannot be your Holmes – or your Watson, should you need one. I belong in Mr. Data’s holographic Baker Street, for those who may yet seek me there.”

“As you will,” Moriarty said. “If you should change your mind…”

“I won’t,” said Holmes. “I do, however, have something for you.” He flicked his fingers again, and a flat square of colored plastic manifested in the palm of his hand. “Your source canon. Seven novels, a handful of shorter tales – easy to take in, well-stocked with friends and allies.”

Moriarty reached out, gingerly took hold of the data card, and inclined his head. “So be it, then. Still, should you ever require a favor….”

Holmes chuckled. “I have your addresses – in Russell Square, and beyond.”

The two men stood quietly facing each other, neither focused on the Baker Street sitting room as the background grew fuzzier and fuzzier around them. Eventually, Moriarty glanced sideways at the expanse of featureless gray fog. The faint sound of hooves clattering on cobblestones rose softly in the background.

“Goodbye, my dear Holmes,” said James Clovis Moriarty, and disappeared.

Sherlock Holmes laughed softly. “ _Au revoir,_ my dear Professor,” he said, as the fog and the hoofbeats took him.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who are interested and/or curious, following is a list of the portrayals of Holmes depicted during the detective's rapid-fire change of appearances:
> 
> * Tom Baker ("Hound of the Baskervilles")  
> * Benedict Cumberbatch  
> * Jeremy Brett  
> * Jonny Lee Miller ("Elementary")  
> * Nicholas Rowe ("Young Sherlock Holmes")  
> * Yūko Takeuchi ("Miss Sherlock")  
> * Ian McKellen ("Mr. Holmes")  
> * Basil Rathbone


End file.
